by Angela Hunt
Praise for Angela Hunt
Five Miles South of Peculiar
“Angela Hunt has penned another winner! From the opening scene, she had me wanting to find out what would happen next to the people of Peculiar, peculiar and otherwise.”
—Robin Lee Hatcher, bestselling author of Heart of Gold and Belonging
“Hunt folds into this recipe for family dramedy two men, tangled family history, and small-town dynamics. The result is deeply engaging characters who readers will care about.”
—Publishers Weekly
“. . . this small-town southern story has a big heart and refreshing characters.”
—Booklist
The Fine Art of Insincerity
“Hunt delves into some serious issues in this family drama centered around three sisters clearing out their grandmother’s house, yet still manages to add humor when it’s needed most. This emotionally compelling novel is a gem.”
—Romantic Times
“Angela Hunt’s The Fine Art of Insincerity is a tale of sisterhood and friendship. She not only addresses serious choices women face, but also will hold readers’ interest with Lillian’s eccentricity and no-nonsense wisdom. Readers will come away knowing judgment and insincerity lead to heartache, but truth releases forgiveness.”
—Christian Retailing
“Angela Hunt is a virtuoso of emotion. She is able to not only explore and explain feelings, but draw you into them with a deftness that’s nearly magical. All too soon, you’re reading these chapters and unable to put the book down. . . . Delightful, engaging, and rich with emotion. If you’re looking for a good weekend read or perhaps a book that will help bring you closer to your own family, this one is it. Angela Hunt hits it out of the park.”
—Fictionaddict.com
“Only Angela Hunt could write a relationship novel that’s a page-turner! . . . From one crisis to the next, the Lawrence sisters are pulled apart, then knit back together, taking me right along with them. I worried about Ginger one moment, then Penny, and always Rose—a sure sign of a good novel, engaging both mind and heart. Come spend the weekend in coastal Georgia with three women who clean house in more ways than one!”
—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Here Burns My Candle
“Angela Hunt’s womanly tale of sisterly affection and protective martyrdom is a well-woven story of self-discovery and personal growth that will melt your heart!”
—Patricia Hickman, author of The Pirate Queen and Painted Dresses
“The Fine Art of Insincerity is a stunning masterpiece. I was pulled into the lives of Ginger, Pennyroyal, and Rosemary—sisters touched by tragedy, coping in their own ways. So real, so powerful. Pull out the tissues! This one will make you cry, laugh, and smile. I recommend it highly.”
—Traci DePree, author of The Lake Emily series
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Now after these events it was
That God tested Avraham
And said to him:
Avraham!
He said:
Here I am.
He said:
Pray take your son,
Your only-one,
Whom you love,
Yitzhak,
And go-you-forth to the land of Moriyya/Seeing,
And offer him up there as an offering-up
Upon one of the mountains
That I will tell you of.
—Genesis 22:1–2
From The Five Books of Moses,
Translated by Everett Fox,
Schocken Books
Chapter One
Marilee and I were trying to decide whether we should braid her hair or put it in pigtails when Gideon thrust his head into the room. Spotting me behind our daughter, he gave me a look of frustrated disbelief. “Don’t you have an important appointment this morning?”
Shock flew through me as I lowered the silky brown strands in my hands. Of course, this was Monday. At nine I had a tremendously important interview with the Pinellas County school system.
I glanced at the pink clock on my four-year-old daughter’s bureau. I had only an hour to shower and dress, drive across Tampa Bay, and find the school system’s personnel office. Somewhere in the mad rush I also needed to rehearse my responses to standard interview questions, calm my nerves, and call the grocery so they’d know I’d be late.
How could I have let time slip away from me on such an important day? Good thing I had a helpful husband.
“Gideon!” I yelled toward the now-empty doorway. “Can you call Mama Isa and tell her I’ll be late this morning?”
“Just get going, Mandy,” he yelled, exasperation in his voice. “Your coffee’s in the kitchen.”
I squeezed Marilee’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweet girl, but this morning we have to go with something quick.”
“Okay. Can I wear it like Princess Leia tomorrow?”
I frowned, trying to place the name. Was she one of the Disney princesses? “How does Princess Leia wear her hair?”
“You know.” Marilee held her hands out from her ears and spun her index fingers in circles. “She has honey buns on her ears.”
I laughed, placing the image—she was talking about the princess in Star Wars. “Sure, if you want to have honey buns over your ears, that’s what we’ll do. We aim to please.”
I pulled the long hair from the top of her head into a ponytail, looped an elastic band over it, and tied a bow around the band. Then I kissed the top of her head and took a moment to breathe in the sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo. “Love you,” I murmured.
She grinned. “Love you, too.”
I returned her smile and hurried into my bathroom.
Twenty minutes later I stood in my closet, wrapped in a towel and dripping on the carpet. What to wear? I had a nice blue skirt, but the waistband had lost its button and I had no idea where I’d put it. The black pantsuit looked expensive and professional, but sand caked my black sandals because I had worn them to the beach last weekend.
“Baby girl?”
“In here.”
The closet door opened and Gideon grinned at me, a fragrant mug in his hand. “Aren’t you ever going to learn how to manage your schedule?”
I grabbed the mug and gulped a mouthful of coffee. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”
“And Mama says I have a dangerous job.” He waggled his brows at the sight of my towel. “Pity you don’t have any extra time this morning.”
“And too bad you have to get Marilee to school. So off with you, soldier, so I can get my act together.”
Chuckling, Gideon lifted his hands in surrender and stepped away from the closet. “Okay, then, I’m heading out. But you’re picking up our little bug from school today, right?”
I dropped the blouse I’d been considering. “I’m what?”
“Our daughter? You’re picking her up this afternoon because I’m leading a training exercise.”
For an instant his face went sober and dark, reminding me of the reason he’d been so busy lately. The military had to be planning something, an operation Gideon couldn’t even mention to an ordinary civilian like me.
“Sure.” My voice lowered to a somber pitch. “I’ve got it covered.”
He nodded, but a hint of uncertainty lingered in his eyes. “Mandy—”
“I’ve got it, so don’t worry.” I shooed him out the door. “Tell Marilee I’ll see her later.”
Gideon nodded and left the
bedroom, his combat boots thumping on the wooden floor.
A snap of guilt stung my conscience, but I had no time for remorse. I needed a better-paying job and Pinellas County needed a middle school cafeteria manager. Rarely did any school have a midyear opening, and this interview could be the answer to all my prayers. . . .
I opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of panty hose, then hesitated. No one wore hose anymore, especially not in the Florida heat, but for this job I’d wear rubber sheathing if they expected me to. I had to look my best, I had to dress to impress, and I had to get across the Howard Frankland Bridge in record time. No one expected a lunchroom manager to look like a fashion icon, but everyone expected her to show up on time.
A brown skirt hung behind Gideon’s gun safe. Though the suede material would be hot and heavy, at least the garment had buttons and a hem. I grabbed it, then yanked a utilitarian white shirt from a hanger. Ready or not, I had to get moving.
A few minutes later, as I fastened the buttons at the sleeve, I noticed a reddish stain on the cuff, probably from Marilee’s cranberry juice. With no time to change, I rolled both sleeves up to the elbow.
I brushed my teeth and hair, swiped mascara across my lashes, and thrust my feet into a pair of worn loafers. I stepped back for one final look in the mirror, then shook my head. I looked more like an absentminded blonde than a manager, but maybe the interviewer wouldn’t mind. I’d impress her with my professionalism.
I ran back into the bedroom, grabbed my oversized leather tote from a hook on the door, and hurried out to my car.
Chapter Two
I know I’m late and I’m sorry,” I called, pushing my way through the door of Mama Yanela’s, the Cuban grocery owned by my father-in-law, Tumelo, and his twin sister, better known as Mama Isa.
Amelia, Mama Isa’s daughter and my cousin by marriage, stood behind the checkout counter and pretended not to hear me. “Muchas gracias,” she told a customer, handing over a bag filled with freshly baked Cuban bread. “Please come again.”
I waited until the elderly customer had shuffled out of the building, then I stepped into the rectangular checkout stand in the center of the store. “Gideon called your mom, right? I had to drive all the way to Largo and back this morning—”
“You could have told me. You were supposed to open.”
I stared, remembering too late that I’d been entrusted with opening the store. In my excitement over the interview, I’d completely forgotten. “But Gideon called,” I whispered in a weak voice, knowing my excuse wouldn’t fly.
“He didn’t call me. And if he called Mama, I didn’t get the message.”
Amelia’s pretty face remained locked in neutral, but when she didn’t leave the checkout stand I knew she was royally ticked off. “You could have told me before this morning,” she went on, glaring at me from beneath her brown bangs. “I nearly panicked when I showed up at seven fifteen and found the doors still locked. At first I thought you’d been in a wreck or something—”
“I wasn’t in a wreck.”
“But how was I supposed to know that? All those old guys who come for coffee were lined up outside. Even Jenna was waiting, and she had two cakes to decorate for noon pickups. Now she’s hopelessly behind.”
“Jenna!” I swiveled toward the bakery at the back of the store, where Jenna Daniels decorated cakes and pastries behind a glass display case. “I’m sorry if I threw you off schedule.”
When I turned to Amelia again, her lips had thinned with irritation. “I don’t know how you can be so casual about everything. This is not funny.”
“I didn’t mean to be funny.” I sighed and stashed my purse in an under-the-counter niche. “Look, the interview I had this morning was a onetime thing. It was important.”
“Sometimes I think you treat the grocery like some kind of hobby.”
“A hobby?” I dropped my jaw. “I work my tail off at this place, just like the rest of you. So don’t tell me I don’t work hard.”
If Amelia had been a cartoon figure, steam would be blowing out her ears. “Okay, you work,” she said, shrugging. “But working part-time means you breeze in whenever you feel like it and take off whenever the mood strikes you.”
“That’s not fair. I’m not that erratic.”
“But this isn’t the first time you’ve been late. If you’re going to open the store, you have to be here before seven. You have to get everything ready, turn on the lights, set up the coffeepots.
I closed my eyes. “I know what I have to do.”
“I don’t think you do. Because somehow you’ve managed to reach adulthood without learning how to take responsibilities seriously. It’s about time you grew up.”
Anger flared in me. Amelia and I were the same age, but sometimes she acted like a worried old woman and seemed to think I behaved like a child. I wanted to tell her that I could be as responsible as she was, but just then the bells above the double doors jangled and Claude Newton, one of our regular customers, shuffled in wearing his usual costume: a Hawaiian shirt, a denim kilt, and bright pink flip-flops.
I covered my smile while Amelia turned and called out a welcome. “Hola, Claude. ¿Cómo estás?”
“Muy bien.” He moved slowly toward the canned goods. “Looking for goat’s milk.”
“Over there, right under la leche de coco,” Amelia told him. “You can’t miss it.”
My anger evaporated as I watched Claude navigate the aisle. How could I stay mad when our one and only resident nudist had popped in for his daily snack run? Working in a Cuban grocery might not be the most exciting job in Tampa, but it had to be one of the most interesting.
“Look.” I folded my arms and transferred my gaze to Amelia. “I’m sorry I forgot about opening the store. I’ll do better. I promise.”
Amelia drew a breath as if she wanted to continue arguing, then she blew out her cheeks. She never could stay mad at me for long.
“From now on, let me know if you’re going to be late, okay?” she said. “Mama wants to retire, so she needs to know she can depend on us. If you or Gideon needs to call about store business, call me, not Mama.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Her gaze softened. “Well . . . did you get the job?”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.” I pulled my apron from beneath the counter and tied it on. “I don’t have a college degree, so I shouldn’t even have bothered applying. I was hoping they’d be desperate enough to overlook my lack of education, but apparently I’m unqualified to oversee a middle school lunch line.” A bitter laugh bubbled to the surface. “I guess my experience here at Mama Yanela’s doesn’t count for much.”
Amelia stepped back to let me move toward the register. “Why did you drop out of college when you were so close to finishing? You invested all that money and time—”
“I didn’t plan on quitting in my junior year. I didn’t plan on falling in love and getting married, and I didn’t plan on getting pregnant—” I stopped when Amelia’s face twisted.
I could have kicked myself. I kept forgetting that after four years of marriage Amelia and Mario had no children. I’m sure they had their reasons for remaining childless, but I didn’t want to pry.
I shifted my gaze to the front window, granting her a measure of privacy.
“I’ll get out of your way now.” Amelia backed out of the narrow space behind the counter, then caught my eye and gestured toward the office at the rear of the store. “I’ll be at the desk. Mama and Uncle Tumelo are coming in later to go over the new order.”
I nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle things up here.”
“If you need a translator, come get me.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Though I didn’t speak Spanish nearly as well as Gideon or his family, I’d been working at the grocery long enough to get a sense of what people were saying when they talked to me. Or I could at least guess what they wanted.
“Go on.” I waved Amelia away. “I know what I’m doing.”
Now, as I look back, I think that may have been the last day I could say those words and even come close to meaning them.
* * *
At two, after making sure Amelia had everything under control at the grocery, I drove to the Takahashi Early Learning Center and sat in the carpool lane. The teachers had already begun to lead their students to the front walk, and as soon as a bell chimed two fifteen they began leaning into cars and buckling in their students for a safe ride home.
I eased off the brake and let my car roll forward. Gideon and I had been fortunate to find this educational program for Marilee. Not everyone understood that we had been blessed with an exceptional four-year-old, but ever since we discovered our daughter’s musical talent, I knew we had to do our absolute best for her.
I smiled as her teacher opened the rear door and reached for the seat belt. “Hey, sweetheart,” I said as Marilee climbed into her booster seat. “Did you have a good day?”
Marilee responded as she always did—with a simple “Uh-huh”—then leaned back and looked out the window as I drove away.
“Did you learn to play any new songs in your piano lesson?”
When Marilee didn’t answer, I glanced in the rearview mirror to see if she was paying attention. Her eyelids were half closed and her head nodded like a puppet on a string. Poor kid. Gideon often wondered if we had involved her in too much too soon, but I thought she’d be fine as long as she remained interested and happy. I wanted her to play and have fun like a normal kid, but we needed to nurture her musical gifts, too. Not everyone was born with perfect pitch and total recall.
Now Gideon worried about what we would do when Marilee entered first grade and her tuition payments gobbled up an even bigger percentage of our income, but I had never been able to see the point in fretting. By then, I told myself, surely I’d have a full-time job, something that would pay far better than a part-time stint at the family grocery.
Yet after today’s disastrous interview, I was beginning to reconsider my opinion. People kept telling me I needed to get a college degree to snag any job paying above minimum wage, but where could I find the money to go back to school? We couldn’t take out a loan when we were already mortgaged to the hilt.
